


Soothing Sunday

by Spencer5460



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, References to Hutch's family, References to Starsky's family, a touch of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 04:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: Hutch is convinced he's not made for "happily ever after."  Can Starsky change his mind?





	Soothing Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the episode "Savage Sunday"

The front sitting room of the Eastside Home for the Aged held a mismatched arrangement of worn furniture and an upright piano that had seen better days. Dusty figurines and an uninspired painting served as accents to the outdated decor. Four of the Home’s elderly residents sat around a wobbly table playing cards as pale sunlight filtered through the faded drapes and the smell of age permeated the air.

Starsky and Hutch watched Sarah Wilson descend the stairs to the room as gracefully as a debutante making her entrance at a cotillion, Henny’s hand at her elbow. Sarah’s white gloves and Henny’s bow tie made the elderly couple seem as though they had just stepped through the portal of a time machine. From an era, Hutch caught himself musing, when couples loved each other through good times and bad, and stayed together ‘til death parted them. And maybe not even then.

Sarah and Henny sat side by side on the sagging couch while Starsky took a seat in a side chair and Hutch paced. They’d come to question the couple about their white ‘63 Chevy that had been identified at the scene of a robbery earlier that day.

“Your car was used in a robbery over two hours ago,” Starsky prodded the couple gently. Along with kids and puppies, he seemed to have an affinity toward the elderly. “Didn't you notice it was missing?”

Sarah looked to Henny who patted her hand tenderly. “Well it wasn't stolen from here,” she said. “It was stolen from the Quality Coffee Shop. We had to take the bus to get home.”

Starsky and Hutch traded baffled glances, then Hutch stopped his pacing long enough to perch on the arm of Starsky’s chair. “Can you tell us why you didn't report this matter to the police?” asked Starsky.

Sarah put a gloved hand on Henny’s arm. “You better tell them, Henny,” she urged at last. “We don't want anyone to get hurt because of us.”

Henny quietly went on to explain to the two detectives how he and his wife had hid fifty sticks of dynamite in the trunk of their old Chevy. They’d planned to drop the car off at a secluded spot - somewhere no one would get hurt - then call in what they had done. All they’d wanted was to call attention to the fact that the Eastside Home for the Aged was falling down around their ears. The plumbing worked only half the time and the food was practically inedible. They hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone. Not really. But their bizzare plan had gone horribly wrong when they’d stopped for coffee. The Chevy had been stolen practically out from under their noses.

Hutch scrubbed his face at Henny’s sheepish revelation and hurried off to update Captain Dobey, leaving Starsky to question the couple further. He didn’t know what propelled him faster, the potential for a deadly explosion or the desire to separate himself from the sweet, doddering couple. The Wilsons’ pristine, yet dated clothes and elegant manners belied their current circumstances - living in a run down, state-sponsored “home” and Hutch’s imagination took flight. He could easily picture them as heads of a grand household; Henny a prosperous accountant or architect, Sarah a festiduous homemaker and doting mother to a lively brood.

What had changed over the years? Had they lost everything in a business deal gone wrong, some quirk of the economy? Had they lost loved ones to the war or just through misunderstandings and poor communication. But through it all they still clung to each other, protecting each other in a world they no longer understood.

How different the Wilsons were from Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson, a couple who’d been blessed with so much - intelligence, family wealth and charisma. But nothing had ever seemed to satisfy Joann and Richard. Not even each other. Foisting Ken and his sister off on any one in a chain of nannies, Joann spent her days at the tennis court or junior league functions, while Richard spent long hours at the office or entertaining clients. At the end of the day, Ken didn’t know what was worse, evenings filled with fierce shouts and the thud of objects thrown across a room or the numbing silence of two people with nothing to say to each other.

Joann Hutchinson left a week after Ken’s tenth birthday and the foundation of his life, such as it was, crumbled away like limestone in the face of rushing of water. It was two years before he saw her again. By then, Joann was someone else’s wife, even though she told him she’d ‘always be his mother.’ Ken wasn’t so sure. She was the same person, but not. So much about her had changed, and not just her hairstyle and perfume. She’d seemed smaller to him, even though of course, it was Ken who had grown.

Richard buried himself ever further in his work as the Hutchinson name was added to the firm’s masthead. Despite the familial resemblance, he and his son were little more than strangers.

Undeterred by the example of his parents, Hutch still hoped for the happily ever after that was marketed to the masses on the evening TV. He basked in the domestic bliss of families like Ozzie and Harriet, Donna Reed, and Danny Thomas. Wise and patient fathers, beautiful and loving mothers, teasing yet loyal siblings. He could practically smell the apple pie emanating from the small screen.

Eventually Ken Hutchinson grew up. He’d long lost track of who he could trust. A disastrous, short-lived marriage finally convinced him that he wasn’t made for happily ever after. Yet it seemed that everywhere he turned now, someone was pushing their happy family in his face. Leaving him feeling inadequate. Even the guy who’d identified the get-away car at the convenience store robbery earlier that day had bragged about his fifteen-year marriage. Fifteen years. He’d probably go toss a ball to his teenage son after dinner that night.

Hutch forced his bitterness aside as they left the Eastside Home for the Aged and he and Starsky continued on through their day. Questioning a buxom go-go dancer, testing the wet paint on the floor of a mechanic’s garage. The adrenalin rush of searching for the deadly Chevy helped him forget his emptiness. Until the minute they found the car - now painted green and with Ohio plates - in the parking garage of a popular concert venue. 

Starsky barely looked at Hutch as he fired up the engine. They had mere seconds to spare before the dynamite in the trunk blew them all to kingdom come. Their only option was to find a safe place for the car to explode. Hopefully, not Starsky along with it.  


“Get him the hell outta here,” Hutch yelled to a motorcycle cop who’d come along to serve as an escort, and the Chevy’s tires screeched as Starsky put the pedal to the metal. Brave-as-fuck, Starsky followed the motorcycle out of the parking garage, careening around the tight corners and leaving the toll booth in splinters.

ooOOoo

The seconds ticked off in Hutch’s head like Chinese water torture as he waited for Starsky to come back. _Come back. Come back._ What if he didn’t? Don’t even think it . . . _don’t think._ He’d proven to himself he could live without a happy family, but Starsky? That he couldn’t do. Starsky was _more_ than family.

Hutch felt his knees buckle at the roar of the motorcycle as it approached; the sight of Starsky perched on the back. He’d done it. He’d pulled a miracle out of his hat.

ooOOoo

The incident that had led to a weaponized Chevy had started with bad food, a situation Starsky and Hutch, with a little assistance from the ever-ebullient Huggy Bear, were determined to rectify. They arranged for a local councilman to join them for lunch at the Eastside Home. After one bite of the residents’ standard daily fare, the councilman was in full agreement that it was practically inedible. Changes would be forthcoming. No car bombs required.

In celebration, Starsky and Huggy brought out heaping cartons of Chinese food, aromatic Italian cuisine, and even exotic soul food, with a flourish, The Eastside residents’ rheumy eyes lit up. Even so, sitting at the boisterous dining table, Hutch suddenly found that he didn’t have much of an appetite.

He watched as Sarah spooned a helping of fried rice onto Henny’s plate, her face glowing; saw Henny offer Sarah a taste of his black-eyed peas with a wink. Hutch thought briefly about asking Henny his secret to a long and happy marriage. Bringing Sarah flowers on her birthday, complimenting her cooking? Never going to bed angry? Somehow he didn't think any of those things would help someone like him. He thought perhaps his parents’ legacy had left him damaged deep down inside - too flawed for love.

Since he knew outwardly he was fairly attractive, he’d decided it was his soul that was unlovable. Maybe that was the real reason he’d been abandoned by his parents and his wife, destined to live his life alone. Hutch stood up and started to clear the dishes, anything to escape the ache growing in his chest.

In the kitchen, Hutch adjusted the spigots and stared into the sink, watching it fill. Then he plunged his hands into the hot, sudsy water, welcoming the way it burned his skin, while chatter and laughter drifted in from the dining room. Happy sounds that the rooms hadn’t heard in years. A giddy mood that had been brought about by his partner.

“I guess I should have picked up some of the rabbit food you like,” Starsky said from behind him. “You hardly touched your plate.”

Hutch jerked his hands out of the water with a start. “I’m just not very hungry,” he explained lamely. Starsky joined him at the sink and within seconds the two had established an efficient pattern, Hutch briskly washing and rinsing the dishes, then handing them off to Starsky to dry and stack on the counter. A comforting, domestic activity. They worked in a quiet rhythm until after a few minutes Hutch broke the silence. “I envy them,” he said as if he were merely thinking aloud.

“Those old folks?” Starsky looked over his shoulder to where the residents were enjoying afternoon coffee just beyond the doorway.

“Sarah and Henny,” Hutch clarified.

Starsky turned back around. “Yeah, they may be a little wacky but they’re a sweet old couple.”

“Have you ever seen love like that? I mean, the old-fashioned, death-us-do-part kind.”

Starsky set the bowl he’d dried on top of a stack that was starting to lean ever so slightly and turned to study Hutch. “Sure. It's like my ma was with my dad. That’s why she never married again after he died. She said she’d had the love of her life - she didn’t need any other,” he smiled at the thought.

“I wonder if I’ll ever find that,” Hutch said wistfully. He looked out the window above the sink where he could see into the small backyard. A couple of goldfinches pecked at a thistle-filled feeder hanging from a tree. One or more of the residents must have had an interest in backyard birdwatching. It was simple, peaceful.

“Of course you will, Hutch.”

“I don’t know, Starsk. I saw my mother and father nearly tear each other to pieces. And then Vanessa . . . ” Hutch looked away from the goldfinches to resume his chore. He dropped a handful of dirty silverware into the water, then began to sort and scrub each individual piece. Anything to focus on instead of the painful thoughts that filled his head. “Maybe it's me. Maybe I’m the one that’s unloveable. Maybe that's why . . ."

Starsky stopped suddenly. “That ain’t so, Hutch. You got it wrong.” He took a spoon from Hutch’s hand and laid it down with his dish towel, then put a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, gently but firmly turning his partner to look at him. “It’s not your fault that your parents divorced. It’s not even your fault that Vanessa left. They just didn’t appreciate what they had. It’s the little things that make life worthwhile, Hutch. It’s this -- ” Starsky waved his other hand to indicate their surroundings.

Hutch took in the outdated kitchen with its worn linoleum floor and cupboards in need of fresh stain, the stacks of cracked and mismatched dishes. Richard, Joanne and Vanessa would have been appalled. Would have run from the place screaming. But Hutch could still hear the happy voices coming from the dining room. The clinking of cups. He could almost see Sarah drop lumps of sugar into their coffees as Henny stirred. Sarah and Henny - looking out for each other, protecting each other the best they knew how for as long as they lived.

“You’re far from unloveable.” Starsky said quietly. He moved his hand from Hutch’s shoulder and touched his face in gesture that was nearly a caress. “I appreciate what I got, too.”

For a minute Hutch had the urge to put his hand on top of Starsky’s. To hold it there and relish its firm warmth. He felt his knees weaken for the second time that week and was grateful they were the only ones in the room.

Before Hutch could think any further, Starsky dropped his hand. Yet he still held his attention. Starsky - who always reminded him to appreciate the little things. Good music, hot food, upbeat company on a long night. A partner who cared enough about a forgotten group seniors to bring them a Chinese dinner on his day off. Who risked his life in a bomb on wheels, only to come roaring back to him like a knight on a charger.

Hutch smiled and turned back to the steadily emptying sink. Theirs might not be an old fashioned kind of love but Hutch began to believe in happily ever after once more.

**FIN**


End file.
